I wonder what lonely sees
women with pretty eyes
— a library in the night
a classroom with broken chairs
white-boards
and bullet-holes
echoes in the halls,
giggles on the swings—
a group of laughing men
wine glasses with their clinks
an unread book—
a wet matchstick box
I wonder what lonely sees—
when he wanders around the towns
— whether
endless moors beneath glass-lid skies
empty roads,
and emptier cadavers —
or
— just the world
as it is—
“To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.”
-Sylvia Plath